


Councilbound

by crescendi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestor-Era (Homestuck), Ancestors (Homestuck), Beforus, Beforus Ancestors, Gen, Pre-Hemospectrum, Zombie Apocalypse, troll call mentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 15:27:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescendi/pseuds/crescendi
Summary: When the dead wake on Beforus, shaking the Eleven Nations to their core, Her Imperial Radiance rises out the sea, with the goal to put the dead back to rest and unite the castes.discontinued





	Councilbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quote citizens unquote might otherwise  
> forget(to err is human;to forgive  
> divine)that if the quote state unquote says  
> "kill" killing is an act of christian love.
> 
> \- e.e. cummings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Iustitia Redblade has a council meeting, a meeting with a limeblood, a meeting with a seadweller, shares her hive, has some opinions, and talks to some people.

Your title is Iustitia Redblade and your people think only of war. Well, not  _ your  _ people. But they have yet to elect a new President after the dead rose and hindered the Eleven Nations to the point of near-collapse over a sweep ago. And these small-minded idiots have a singular taste for blood.

“If we attack the purplebloods at this outpost, we will easily be able to bypass their guards,” the Hidden argues, folding his arms across his chest, leaning back in his high-backed chair.

“No, we should focus on the cobalts,” the Inescapable snaps back, half-standing. She points angrily at the map on the center of the table, braids swishing. “They won’t be expecting an attack from the Retseem Lake.”

“What about —”

You’ve had enough. 

In one fluid movement, you shoot to your feet, so fact the chair topples back, hitting the floor with a  _ bang! _ , drawing the rest of the Senate’s attention to you. You unsheathe your sword, and fling it into the table at an angle, narrowly missing the map. It takes a little over a second. All eyes on you. The floor is yours.

“Shut,” you say calmly. “up.”

“Iustitia,” the Employer says stiffly, “if you wanted to speak, you could have asked.”

“I did not want to speak. I wanted you to listen to yourselves. Bickering among each other like wigglers. Every night, our food supplies dwindle lower. Every day, more trolls—not just tealbloods—are taken by the dead. Soon, there won’t  _ be _ kingdoms to conquer. This is bigger than tealbloods alone. This is about trollkind as a whole.”

“Careful, Iustitia. You’re starting to sound like a cobalt.”

The comment gets a rise of snickers. You bare your teeth. Sometimes, a hammer is of more use than a scalpel.

You wrench your sword from where it is stuck and fling both arms in either direction; your coworkers on your left have to duck in order to avoid an impromptu scalping.

“What I  _ want  _ is for you to pull your heads—pardon the vulgarity—out of your nooks and to face the reality of the situation, which is that everyone on Beforus is  _ under attack from a common enemy. _ The Great Mind is upset.  _ The Great Mind  _ is upset, the thing that teaches us to speak.” You punctuate each word with pointing the tip of your sword at a different Senator. “Every night, daymares for each of us. Grubs pupating with garbled speech. And all you imbeciles care about is who to invade next. We don’t even have a President yet.” You resheath your sword. “I’m sure some of you were thinking something along those lines, but it appears I am the only one with any globes in the Senate.”

“Thank you, Iustitia. Your title should’ve been the Blabberer.”

You offer your coldest smile to the speaker. “Thank you, Dogged. You title should’ve been the Incompetent.”

The Dogged glowers at you. “As a matter of fact—”

Whatever surely-irrelevant thing the Dogged was going to say is cut off by a child rushing through the door.

“We are in session,” the Hidden starts, scandalized.

“Trolls,” the child says. She can’t be more than three sweeps old. “Not—not tealbloods. Coming, quickly.”

“What,” the Inescapable starts, but you are glad to say you are already on your feet and halfway out the door before the rest of Senate are even out of their seats.

A crowd has gathered at the gate of the capital. You shoulder your way through, half-tempted to draw your blade to clear it faster. You can see through the slits what looks like hundreds, perhaps thousands, of trolls.

Your stomach starts to turn. Have the dead started started to rise even at night?

But no. They do not have the same sickly pale blue sheen to them. too pale for even the warmest of cobalts. These are living, breathing trolls.

The problem is, of course, their leader has fins. Violetblood. You snarl under your breath. Once, it would have been clear what to do. Now, all you can think is at least you won’t die of starvation.

The closer they come, the quieter your people become. You can make out violets and limes and yellows. The leader wearing a pastel pink skirt and a black skirt, under leather armor. Her sign is the darkest of violets, from what you can tell. She’s holding a golden trident, tall, taller than her, even. It glitters, reflecting the rose moon.

They stop about one hundred feet away. A single troll peels off from the group and toward the capital. A diplomat, you suppose. Or perhaps a messenger, to send a warning: surrender or die. You know, of course, what the Senate would decide. Death before dishonor. It is ingrained in all your bones. In another time, before the dead became the no-longer-dead, you would have agreed. Now, you think nothing of honor.

The troll is lime. You suppose this makes sense in a peaceful context—the limebloods are historically pacifists. You relax a little.

The gates opens with a grinding noise that grates on your ears, made harsher by the silence. In steps a woman with hair that brushes her shoulders.

“Hello,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I am here on the behalf of Her Imperial Radiance.”

What a mouthful of a title.

Your curiosity, however, is piqued.

 

= = =

 

You take a long sip of your tea. She mirrors you.

The woman, who introduced herself as the Inspirer, interlaces her claws. “I suppose you have deduced I come diplomatically.”

“If you know of another purpose of sending a limeblood into tealblood territory, I would be glad to hear it,” you reply levelly.

The tight smile she’s worn since she stepped foot into the capital has not wavered once. You are grateful for your glasses—you feel if you did not have that barrier, this would quickly devolve into a staring contest.

“Her Imperial Radiance is a troll who aims to put an end to the dead that walk Beforus.”

“...And how does she intend to do that?”

The Inspirer’s shoulders rise and fall with grace. “For that, you have to speak to her yourself.

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Inspirer,” you say, slowly, letting her title roll off your tongue. “What is the success of the recruitment rate of this, hm,  _ expedition _ ?”

“So far? 100%.”

You nearly choke. “I’m sorry?”

The Inspirer nods her curved horns as if the sudden lapse in your composure didn’t just happen. “Her Imperial Radiance rose out of the sea with a city’s worth of violetblood’s at her heels. She came to us with a proposition, and spoke to a, ah, representative. Whatever she said to him was convincing enough he agreed for the limebloods to join her in the march. The process repeated with the goldbloods and now—you. As in, the tealbloods.”

This is...very curious. Very curious indeed.

“Tell Her Imperial Radiance I will meet with her.”

The Inspirer rises from where she sits and bows.

 

= = = 

 

Her Imperial Radiance is large in every sense of the word, it seems. She has to duck in order to fit into the meeting block. Even then, her horns practically scrape the ceiling. Her trident, fortunately, has been left with her followers.

“Her Radiance,” you say, unwilling to acknowledge the  _ Imperial  _ part of her title. “Would you like to sit or stand?”

“I will sit, thank you.” She does not sit in the chair, instead taking her seat on the floor, folding her legs underneath her. You suppose this fair—you privately doubt she would be able to fit in it. Her voice is devoid of any accent one might use to identify what region of the sea she might be from. Although, she must hail from the south if what the Inspirer claimed is true. “Are you the leader?”

You laugh humorlessly, and also sit on the floor, cross-legged, as to duplicate her movements. “I am a competent member of the government. They must recognize that, even if they do not  _ like _ me as a troll.”

Her Radiance sighs and reaches for the kettle between you. She fills your cup, then hers. “That is not an answer, Redblade.”

Your jaw clenches. Before you spoke to the Inspirer, they had an impromptu vote to who would fill the shoes of the President. As of a few hours ago, you, indeed, are. There is no reason to be upset. So you truthfully say: “Yes.”

“You are stressed,” Her Radiance notices.

You pick up your cup of tea and hold it in your claws to ground yourself. “My coworkers are... _ bullheaded _ at time,” you say, carefully, keeping your voice level. “There can be...complications. Not to mention the fact the dead have stopped staying dead.” You just brush on the question hovering between you, the trumpetbeast in the block.

“You must be truly be a strong leader to keep your people together in such trying time, but, if pardon my rudeness, the teal way of governing sounds inefficient.”

It is her own fault if she assumes you have been in charge of this mess the whole way. But, in a way, haven’t you? It still catches you off-guard. “One could say that,” you agree, turning the still-full cup in your claws. “But such is the price of democracy.” Both of you are skilled in the art of dodging questions.

“Oh, I do agree. One troll cannot be trusted with all that power.”

“And yet your title suggests you beliefs lean toward the opposite.” It is a bold move. “Her  _ Imperial  _ Radiance.”

“An unfortunate misnomer. One picked up due to the fact I lead the Journey.”

The tealbloods are a caste that seems to have a predilection toward war. Every time one war ends, another crops up three sweeps later. You specialize in interrogation. They say you could smell lies. This, of course, is a myth. No one can smell lies. You are just very good at deciphering tells.

Her Radiance has not shown any tells you can see. Nevertheless, you do not trust her.

“Your Inspirer said your goal is to end the invasion of the undead.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Her Radiance’s eyes glitter. “I have my ways,” she says simply. This is frustrating.

“I cannot take your word for it, you understand. I must have proof.”

“Is the fact these trolls under my protection have not perished, despite that we have been traveling for a sweep not proof enough?” Her Radiance’s eyelashes flutter as she blinks.

“No, it is not.” You sigh. and place the untouched cup of tea back on its saucer. “You have only half-convinced me. Half.” You take off your rectangular glasses and set them on the table delicately. “So let us decide my means of halves.” You pull out a single silver coin from your pocket.

Her Imperial Radiance half-laughs, half-scoffs. “Redblade—surely you do not truly mean to make this choice by a game of luck?”

“Luck does not exist.” You turn the coin so she can see both sides. “Not a trick. Just a flip. Heads, I go with you, no questions asked. Claws, you leave and never return. Do you accept?”

Something in Her Radiance’s eyes harden. “I do.”

You nod and place the coin your thumb. You flip it. It hovers in the air for what feel like the longest seconds of your life.   
It lands with a clatter on the table, spinning on its rim for another three seconds, so the face is blurred and neither you or her can make the result out.

When it settles, a tension in the air you hadn’t realized was there disappears.

Heads.

 

= = =

 

“May I ask you something?”

Her Radiance pauses, claw on the gate’s lever. “I would prefer to work in private—” she starts, but you hold up a claw.

“It is about your blood.”

Her Radiance’s claw slackens. “Ah. I hoped to tell you later.”

_ When we were too far away to turn back? _ you want to say. Instead, you say, “That is not answer.” and ignore the little spark of satisfaction in your chest for using her own line against her.

She leans down and lowers her voice. “My blood is fuschia. I am the first in centuries. Look, I can show you.” She extends an open claw and draws a line across her palm with a claw. The blood that well up from the cut is indeed tyrian.

“Interesting,” is all you say, and is also probably the wrong thing to say. “Thank you. And I do hope you are successful.

You turn away from her. You must get bed before sunrise.

Unfortunately, this will mean sharing your hive, as the members of Journey are also staying the capital for the day.

You’re sharing with a mellow violetblood titled the Baptist and a goldblood (with no concept of personal space) titled the Chemist. You get the bed, of course, but it’s still...odd. At least the Chemist is too young to have fought in any war against the tealbloods. She can’t be more than ten sweeps.

“Got any quadrants?” she asks.

“Not presently.” Your last matesprit was killed in a battle against the cobalts. Your kismesis was taken by the dead. Your moirail starved to death last season.

“Your lusus, then?”

You touch your tongue to your teeth as you rummage around in your drawer, pretending to look for your casual clothes. In truth, you are just trying to look busy. “She...did not hatch,” you say delicately. Your lusus situation is complicated and you refuse to discuss it with a complete stranger.

Her face twists. “Then how—?”

The Baptist clears their throat. “Why don’t we let Redblade have some privacy?” they say gently. You shoot a grateful look at them.

“Yes,” you say stiffly and pull out your clothing of choice and duck into the respite block. You strip off your Senate’s teal-and-red jacket, your black undershirt, and pants. You splash water onto your face and stare into the mirror. It has been a very long night. Exhaustion weighs on your horns.

You pull your sleepclothes on and kick yourself for not cleaning your hive the night before. You head straight to bed. There will be another long night tomorrow, you are sure.

 

= = =

 

Duelhope is the violetblood’s representative. He is short for a seadweller, which is to say several heads taller than you. He clings to Her Radiance’s side. He is the most loyal to her, you think, the most convinced of her prowess. He was once a record keeper of sort, before the dead started waking up. He is arrogant, in a sort of a way. A fanatic, in another. You dislike him.

The Vanguard is the limeblood’s representative, which is odd, as he is not a limeblood at all, but a mutant. His blood runs the color of heated iron, the same shade tealblood officials wear. He does not seem especially taken by Her Radiance, but refers to her by her full title. He does not seem especially taken by anyone. He is quiet. Only speaks unless spoken to, but can carry a pleasant conversation. You have to wonder if his sereneness comes from his mutant status. Even the limebloods do not treat those of mutant blood as equals. Perhaps he learned (or was taught) to keep his mouth shut. Still, you having taken in interest in him.

Dioscuri is the representative for the yellowbloods. He has, oddly, two sets of horns, but more interesting is his psionic prowess. It is a stronger case than you have ever seen. He calls Her Radiance Radi, an informality that took you aback the first time you heard him call her that. She doesn’t seem to like it, but allows it. You think he knows this. He is more interested in his work than he is other people. You can respect that. He is a rather sullen fellow, but reasonable enough, you suppose. You enjoy his company. You do not enjoy his company when he is in any proximity of the Vanguard.

Together, the Vanguard and Dioscuri quickly devolve into lashing discourse, arguing over the most inane of subjects. If left alone, they will quickly start screaming at each other, all the peacefulness of the Vanguard gone and the rationality of Dioscuri disappeared. It would be fascinating, if it wasn’t so grating.

 

= = =

 

“May I ask an intrusive question?” No need to hide it. Your inquiry will be rude.

The Vanguard’s cherry-red eyes lock onto yours behind your glasses of the same shade. “Yes,” he replies flatly.

“I noticed you are a mutant.”

“Yes.”

“Why did the limebloods choose you as their leader?”

“Because the limebloods had no true leader. Rather, we split into groups and discuss and come to an agreement. Then those groups marhe and come to an agreement, and so on until we all come to a consensus. Then we choose a spokestroll at random, which fell on me.”

Sounds lengthy and boring, but you keep that to yourself and nod. You’re almost out of teal territory by now, and about to encroach onto purple territory, according Dioscuri’s calculations, which was told to you by Duelhope. The exchange went as follows:

“Dioscuri says we’ll be on purple land soon.”

“Okay.”

“Her Most Imperial Radiance tells me everything is going smoothly and according to plan.”

“Good to know.”

“It is wonderful to soon another nation will pledge their allegiance to Her Most Wonderful Imperial Radiance.”

“How nice.”

He is such a fucking bootlicker.

You go talk to Dioscuri directly after that interaction with Duelhope. “I hear we will be on purple territory soon.”

He nods. You will never get used to his eyes—pure pools of red and blue. “Yeah. In a few nights. If we don’t run into anything.”

“Ah.” This is how Dioscuri always speaks, in a spurts of a few words, breaking his sentences up into fragments.

It’s dusk, and the Journey’s takers have stopped walking. Most trolls have turned in for the day. He fiddles with something in his claws. You sit together on a grassy hill. You want to ask about the Vanguard. Instead, you lean over and ask, “What is that?”

“A puzzle-box.” He shifts so you can see. It is a box carved of wood into many interlocking parts. “My ex-moirail gave it to me. Still haven’t figured it out.” His lisp is hidden under sweeps of speech therapy, but it is still there, an undercurrent of his words.

“Fascinating.” A question is on the tip of your tongue, another personal one. “If I may...Dioscuri. How did you get your title? I do not recognize the word.”

“Yellowbloods get their title from their mentor.”

Understanding clicks in. “Tealbloods get their title from their first official job and battle,” you inform him. “Each job has a list of titles. My first official job was a judge, so Iustitia. My first battle was against the burgundies. I killed so many they say my blade was stained with red. Thus, Redblade.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Every ancient thing is.”

He snorts at this. “The wheel is ancient. The wheel is simple.”

“Every ancient  _ institution _ is, then.”

“Whatever you say, Red.”

None of the representatives have found out, despite over a sweep now of traveling together, how Her Radiance keeps the dead at bay. Yet not one attack by the undead has been made against the Journey. Her Radiance’s promise has been kept.

Your title is Iustitia Redblade and it seems you begrudgingly trust Her Radiance more every step of the Journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEET first chapter. next will probably be duelhope  
> also please keep in mind these aren't the beta trolls? like when you look at the ancestors you aren't looking at the alpha trolls


End file.
